As Above, So Below
by solynacea
Summary: She watches him shrewdly, this demon hunter, this woman of dusk and shadows. And he watches her in turn, as he does the moon, and wonders when a mortal witch became the one thing he'd give his life for. An AU in which Moth is a demon hunter stuck with a Lord of Hell.
1. Case 01, File 01: Barghest

**A/N:** Hello, and welcome to the first chapter of _As Above, So Below._ This idea has been stewing for almost a year now, and I've finally gotten around to putting it on paper. For those of you familiar with either _Devil May Cry_ or _The Witcher,_ you might notice nods to them here and there, but this story is set in neither of those universes. It's a modern AU with demon hunting at its core, featuring Moth and a certain Demon Prince set on making her life miserable. Or interesting, depending on which of them you ask.

Please note that the rating is subject to change in later chapters, and tags and characters will be added as needed.

* * *

"_left hand path aftermath to bring  
forth demons cast sorrow  
felt deep beneath shall I ever wrath  
upon the ash to stand at hand"  
_— temptation for the take, Devious Saint

The city is suffocating. Weathermen offer apologies full of self-deprecation as the heatwave they swore would pass the city by digs in its claws like a cat settling in for a nap. Children idle restlessly inside; the air is thick and oppressively humid, leaving clothes and hair sticky with sweat as they cling to anyone unfortunate enough to be outdoors. Even the roads are nearly empty, save for the few who have to suffer the commute to and from work. It is another day in the same place, another repeat of the annual dashing of hopes for a long, mild spring, and it means absolutely _nothing _when you're caked in dirt and clots of blood and are desperately craving a shower and just _one _job where a demon doesn't decide to throw you into the nearest ditch.

Which is, in Moth's opinion, something that happens far too often.

Her boots squelch as she climbs the steps that lead to her shop, and she shoulders the door open carelessly as she kicks them off. The air inside is so cool that her skin prickles, the filth seeming to harden once it's out of the heat. Moth glances at her desk and the phone with its flashing message indicator and decides that whatever ungodly creature is wreaking havoc can wait until she doesn't smell like a saltwater swamp. Through the door marked _Private _and up the stairs is her apartment, though she supposes the whole building is her home, and the familiar squeaking as she turns on the shower pulls the tension from her shoulders. This is one of the safest places in the city thanks to the wards woven into the walls, which means it's a place where she can actually, truly _relax._

She takes her time, remaining under the shower until the water runs cold, and she's getting dressed when the sound of her phone ringing pierces the air. Her mobile, not the landline, which means it's more than likely Dalton with an anxious client in his ear. Everyone thinks their situation is urgent these days, even when it's more often a leaking pipe causing odd sounds than a malevolent spirit, but he never calls her unless the job is worth the hassle. Moth digs gingerly through her still damp bag until she finds what she's looking for — a phone that, according to him, was made to be nigh indestructible and might actually be thanks to the enchantments she'd placed on it — and the moment the line clicks she hears him talking soothingly to a sobbing woman. The client, she assumes.

"About time you picked up," he snaps, and she rolls her eyes as she pads from the washroom to her closet. "I've been trying to reach you all morning."

"I was waist-deep in a river, so you'll excuse me if I didn't answer right away."

She can almost see the shrewd look in his eyes. Personal flaws aside, he's a damn good broker, and he never lets anyone undercut her costs. "They pay you?"

"Enough." She rifles through her clothes. "What have you got?"

Dalton sighs. There's the sound of muffled footsteps and a door closing, and his voice is much more frank when he answers. "I'm not sure. I thought it was a hellhound, but the way the client is describing it, it'd be the biggest damn one I've heard of."

"Details?"

"Showed up two days ago. You know the usual signs: sulfur in the air and pets going missing. Thought it was a wolf until they saw the tracks. I checked, Kevrim, and they're _three times _the size of my hand. And the area around them was scorched. Aren't hellhounds supposed to be the size of pitbulls? When did they start burning shit?"

Moth clicks her tongue. "Did you check for gasoline? We've had people try and set stuff on fire to get our attention before."

"Not a trace of it." There's a pause as the door opens and a murmured voice says something she doesn't quite catch. "Yes, of course. I'll let her know." The door closes again. "Listen, these people are willing to pay quadruple what we charge."

That surprises her, as her services aren't exactly cheap. "Why? You don't give money away like that without a good reason."

"It killed their kid." Her fingers still on the shirt she'd been considering. "Tore him apart. He was a sleepwalker. And I guess they forgot to lock the doors or maybe it didn't matter if they did, because he got outside and they didn't know he was gone until he started screaming."

She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath as she works to suppress the memory that looms uninvited. "Alright. But they don't have to pay that much. I'll do it for free."

"Which is why I negotiate prices and you get the job done." Dalton's voice softens and she hates it, hates the idea that he thinks she's so weak-willed that he has to tiptoe around whatever it was that got her into this line of work in the first place. "You gonna be alright?"

"Yeah. I'll need a few hours to prepare, which works. Hellhounds are nocturnal as a rule." Moth glances at the window, then her clock. "Tell them I'll be there at seven, and give them the usual precautions. I'll try to keep it away from the house, but . . ."

"Shit happens," he finishes blandly.

* * *

The heat from the day makes the evening muggy. Moth tugs on the collar of her shirt, a simple black affair with long sleeves to keep her better hidden in the dark, trying to keep it from melting to her skin even though she knows it's a losing battle. Luckily the clients didn't want to meet with her, meaning she can get to work without the awkward introductions and patronizing side glances. Demon hunting was a man's world for a long time, and some people still don't know what to make of having her show up instead of a six foot soldier with a bad attitude.

With a low hum, she sets her pack on the ground as she surveys the spot she'd decided on. The clearing is wide enough that she has room to maneuver, and it's far enough from the house that she's not worried about anyone else getting caught in the crossfire. Banishing might be the more humane method, but it pisses demons off just as much as trying to kill them does.

Clouds shift from gray to amber to a dusky violet while she prepares for the job. Salt to purify, rosemary to repel, sage and lavender to cleanse when it's all over. Then comes the not-so-nice stuff, the things that make people uncomfortable when Moth has to describe them. Lamb's blood to draw the runes, a live goat to tempt the hellhound, virgin bones and gravestone mold and cemetery dust. _Death to death._ Her hair clings to the back of her neck by the time she's done, and the moon is low and fat and preternaturally bright. If there's a demon nearby, the goat's panicked bleating will draw it out to investigate soon enough, so she checks the gun she carries just in case — silver bullets won't kill a demon but they'll slow it down and that's the difference between living and being torn apart — and sets it next to her with the safety off and a round in the chamber.

It's a waiting game now, but she doesn't have to play it long. The stench reaches her first, matchsticks and woodsmoke and rot, then the wet sounds of snuffling and branches breaking under foot, and then it steps into the clearing and Moth feels the first vestiges of worry. Most of its kind come to her waist. A rare few to her chest. But this one towers over her, and she knows that she'd barely reach its shoulder if she dared to get close enough. As for the scorched earth, the whole thing is wreathed in black flame, or made from it, its eyes two pinpricks of red, mindless hatred that sear into her as it prowls closer.

A barghest. Not a hellhound, not of the usual sort, anyway, and that means that she is woefully underprepared.

The goat yanks frantically on its chain as the hound breaches the outer circle. Ignoring it, Moth reaches to her side and hums a mindless little tune. It won't be so mindless soon, but demons are keen and this one will rip her apart if she starts too early. "You're a big one," she murmurs, trying to make her voice sound appreciative, "and lovely. You must be quite strong."

The hound pauses, baring its teeth with a growl; saliva sizzles when it hits the grass, its fangs long and dagger-sharp in the moonlight. "You're a bit far from home, I'm afraid," Moth continues as her fingers close around the handle of a small, silver bell. "What are you here for? Food? Or maybe . . ." It crosses the threshold of her sanctuary and she stands, bell ringing a clear note when she lets the stopper go. "Maybe you're just a bastard who kills kids."

The barghest lunges, but she's prepared. The bell swings, first a figure eight, then a slow circle, its chiming sweet and pure. She hums along with it, feeling the familiar draw of her magic responding. Moth had discovered long ago that music was easier for her, less than draining by far than the traditional chants and prayers, and had stuck to it even with the occasional other hunter shook their head and called her a fool. _You're supposed to kill them, _one had laughed, a man she'd made the mistake of bedding, _not sing them a lullaby. _He had died a week later when he'd lost his breath and the changeling he'd been hunting tore out his throat. But there's an innate danger to it, too; now that the song has started, it cannot be stopped, not until either the barghest is back where it belongs or she dies. Moth keeps her voice steady, crooning wordlessly so she does not falter even when she breathes in.

Wherever it came from, the hound is strong. It writhes and snaps its jaws, rips at the damp earth with its claws in a fury, and the air around them steams as it thrashes its tail. All too soon, sweat is cooling on her spine and dotting her brow; she is no stranger to its kind, and she _knows _she should have brought baby's breath instead of rosemary, but it _should_ be weakening by now. Not bucking against the chains she's trying to weave around it, and the only thing that keeps her from giving in to fear is the knowledge that fear will get her killed. Against the cold of her magic, the barghest's heat rages, and they are caught in the midst of a tempest that fills the air with the saltwater scent of a boiling sea. Moth grits her teeth and alters her pitch, hoping to force it into a slumber, but the bell she holds is one of walking, and its tune is discordant with her own.

If this continues for much longer, exhaustion will kill her before the hound can.

Finally, it begins to weaken. The signs are small, at first: a paw slips on the charred grass, a low huff leaves its mangy muzzle. Then it begins to slow, as though its limbs are too heavy to move, the loud snarling replaced by labored panting, the pinpricks of its eyes dimming, flickering. Keeping her grip on the bell firm, Moth walks a careful circle around it, tapping the runes she'd drawn with the compass with her foot as she passes them until the barghest is enclosed in a thin barrier that makes the air shimmer and dance. _Almost, _she thinks, with no small relief. _Almost. _Her fingers tremble as she lets go of the handle, her palms clammy with a sort of panicked exhilaration, and she claps her hands together once, smartly, so the sound reverberates through the clearing.

_"Ite domum!" _she says sharply. The hound whimpers, trembles. _"Revertimini ad infernum unde venistis!" _

There is a single, infinite moment where she thinks it will not obey. Then it lies collapses, foam drooling from its muzzle, and she reads the promise in the gaze that holds her own: _I will kill you, _it seems to say, _I will crack your bones and feast on your flesh. _But the fight is over. The ground trembles as the barghest sinks into it, the fierce fires of its body sizzling into smoke and ash; this place will need purification in the oncoming weeks to dissuade anything else from being drawn to it, and that will be a taxing job, yet as she watches the last, grasping tendrils disappear into the earth, Moth cannot help but feel pleased. She had survived. The family would mourn, and they would do so safely, and maybe one day children could play in the clearing without fear. Yes, she thinks, she had done well, and done it without shedding blood, even the goat unscathed, if terrified. She smiles, takes a step forward.

And collapses.

The strength goes out of her at once. Heaving for air, she tries to get herself under control, knowing that there is still so much to be done before she can go home. Though she does not vomit, her stomach roils, the aches in her joints and the weakness in her shaking legs the result of drawing too much from a nearly empty reservoir. She needs to call Dalton. Lifting her head, she spots her bag where she had left it, and a groan escapes her at the thought of crawling to it. Still, she cannot remain like this, and he will be able to seal the area until she can deal with it.

Before she can go anywhere, however, a low voice calls, "Impressive. You aren't the first to meet my beast, though you _are _the first to survive it."

Moth closes her eyes, her mouth full of the taste of pomegranate and rich wine. A demon, and a high-ranking one, going from the thrum of power through the air, and she is too weak to do anything to stop it. Slowly, she forces herself to sit back on her knees, meeting the amused obsidian eyes of the creature at the edge of the clearing. It looks like a man, if one were to take all of the things a man was made of and idealize them. Its face is handsome, rugged, the nose aquiline above a mouth curved in a sinful grin, the jaw strong, the cheekbones sharp. From the broad shoulders to the strong arms to the carved muscle of its chest and the defined v of its hips, it is every woman's fantasy. But darkness curls over its forearms and thick thighs to form claws that are no doubt as lethal as they look, and from its head swoop curved black horns like a ram's.

"Yes," it muses, its voice like honey over gravel, smooth and alluring and dangerous, "though you look rather worn down. Surely one round wasn't enough to tire you so?"

"Piss off," Moth answers. Her knees are still too uncertain for her to stand, but she reaches for the bell, despite knowing it's hopeless to fight in her condition. Even if she were _not _exhausted, such a being would be almost impossible for her to overcome. "What the hell is your problem, sending a monster like that to . . . to devour an innocent child?"

It seems mildly surprised. "Did it, now? Is that why you came?"

Her eyes narrow as it prowls closer, hearing the soft whisper of its talons against the grass. "That's none of your business."

"But it is. That barghest, you see, was a scout. It had no business doing anything other than what it was ordered to do, and I did not tell it to hunt." It kneels in front of her, and this close she can smell it, sandalwood and spice and something like the air after rain. "So if you killed it, you saved me the trouble of doing so myself, which means I am in your debt."

She bares her teeth. "Again, piss off."

It throws back its head and laughs. "Feisty! Mortals like you are truly entertaining. Well? What would you ask for as a reward? Your wish," it purrs, "is my command."

Moth takes a deep, shuddering breath. Already she can feel its magic working against her, pressing along her mind for any chink, any crack that will give it more influence over her. Desperate — too tired to banish and too knowledgeable to make a request and give it ownership of whatever soul she might have — she whispers, _"Abite hinc et vade irrumabo te."_

She has barely a moment to register the stunned fury on its face. "You little witch," it growls, and she watches an arm draw back with a sort of sick fascination. Before it can kill her, however, a plume of smoke encircles it; blinking her eyes against the sudden sting, she realizes that it is gone. It will be back, of that she has no doubt. What she said was a vulgar request for it to fuck off, but now Moth has time to prepare for its arrival. The next time they meet, it will not find her cowering in the dirt. She will face it as an equal, and only one of them will walk away from the encounter.

A pity, she thinks, beginning the arduous shuffle to her belongings. If it were not a demon, it would be exactly her type.

Drawing her phone from her bag, she dials Dalton's number. "The hellhound is gone," she says as soon as the line clicks. "Come pick me up."

Then she lies down in the grass, and knows no more.


	2. Case 01, File 02: Shtriga

**A/N: **This story will have two updates this week—today and tomorrow—to get it back on it's proper update schedule of every Wednesday. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

"_What if, some day or night, a demon were steal after you  
into your loneliest loneliness and say to you:  
_'_This life as you now live it and have lived it,  
you will have to live once more and innumerable times more' . . .  
Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus?  
Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him:  
_'_You are a god, and never have I heard anything more divine.'"  
_— Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science

The week after Moth's encounter with the barghest is spent healing. While she might not have been _physically _injured, the amount of energy she'd exerted containing and banishing the beast was incredibly taxing, particularly as it had been her tenth job in as many days with no time off to _rest. _On top of that, the demon who'd mocked her afterwards, the one she had more than likely pissed off, is bound to show up for its pound of flesh at some point, and she knows that she needs to prepare for it if she wants to survive their next encounter. The first two days, she sleeps, leaving her bed only to eat or shower. It is the slumber of the dead, as her mother would have said, the kind that often leaves one feeling worse than they did before, but it's welcome all the same. The next, she works from dawn to dusk scrubbing her shop and apartment, wrinkling her nose at the dust that's accumulated in her absence and the pile of dishes lingering in the sink.

It's only once she and her home are spotless that she turns her mind to more pressing matters. The doors remain locked, the landline off the hook, as Moth drags books with pages as thin and fragile as a butterfly's wing from her closet and begins to sort through them. They are old, written mostly in Latin or German, and contain information on the hierarchies of the Seven Hells and the demons who reside there. While mostly hearsay — in those days, encountering anything stronger than an imp was fatal — there are snippets of truth within the exaggerated accounts, and she pores over them well into the night, searching for any hint of the demon she'd encountered, the one with silver hair and eyes of polished obsidian. Yet hours of searching reveal nothing, and she curses as she stands from her chair, her joints cracking as she stretches from the curled up position she'd wound up in.

It's only then that she catches sight of the journal on the floor. Familiar to her, and rarely opened, it contains the thoughts and observations of a hunter decades ago, one that she knew as her grandfather. Moth chews on her lip, torn between the need to know and the need to bury the past, to leave behind her the person she _had been, _before kneeling to collect it. The scent of clove cigars and dried blood fills her nose when she opens it, the spine creaking beneath her fingers, and she thumbs idly through the pages. On one, there is a sketch of something she recognizes; after a second, she realizes that it is the pendant the demon had been wearing, and leans in closer, struggling to make out the faded print, her lips moving soundlessly as she reads:

_June 16, 19-_

_Demonic activity more present. Hellhounds in cemetaries, imps stealing children from their cradles. Records from my ancestors are slim, but hint at a cycle: a rise of a few decades, followed by an abrupt spike that lasts five years. No reason for this known._

_During research, found record of potential leadership amongst the hells that I believe more accurate than most. It comes from an Inquisitor, those vile men who murdered innocents at the behest of demons. If true, it could be the first evidence of its kind & aid in our perpetual search for the truth & balance._

_June 22, 19-_

_Journal waterlogged and damaged. Cannot make out most of the text. What I can read points to eight devils who stand above the rest: three princes & five generals. There have always been rumors of the Princes; this seems to confirm them. Drawn in the margin is a symbol said to denote them. I have done my best to replicate it._

_Only something divine can harm a Prince. If they truly return to this world, the purging will begin anew, and nothing will be able to stop it._

_Must warn Macha._

She runs her thumb over the writing, a frown marring her features. If this is true — and she has no reason to believe it isn't, with how meticulous and skeptical her grandfather was — then she's in far more danger than she originally thought. Witches like herself and divinity have never been compatible, save, perhaps, for the druids of old, and she cannot think of a priest who would help her should she ask. Which means she will be utterly alone in facing this demon when it returns, a thought that has Moth's shoulders slumping. What should she do?

A line from one of her mother's favorite poems comes to her then, and she lifts her face to study the items scattered haphazardly across the desk of her study. "Rage," she murmurs, "rage, against the dying of the light." Let it come, she decides. It will kill her, but she will wound it as terribly as she can.

* * *

"Kevrim!" Dalton's raucous cheer greets her as she steps into the dimly lit bar. Smiling, Moth cuts through the crowd, which parts around her as though she is something dangerous, amused to find her broker already well on his way to being drunk. "Where the hell have you been?"

"On vacation," she tells him as she sinks into a chair.

He snorts, thumping the table with his hand. "Vacation, she says. Well! Your little absence cost me a pretty penny. I had to pass jobs off to Marcus, and that little shit couldn't pour water out of a boot with instructions written on the heel! Nearly got himself eaten, and the client, too. Honestly," he complains, "how a little pissant like him got into this business, I'll never know."

Moth merely nods, well aware that doing or saying anything that isn't an agreement will put her on the rough side of his tongue. Sober, Dalton is the best broker in the city, if not the state, and that means he deals with characters he'd rather avoid, a fact he only laments when drinking. And Marcus _is _a bit of a fool; she has only worked with him once, and found him young and overly eager to prove himself, even if it meant taking unnecessary risks. But no one becomes a hunter for fun, so she had held her tongue and done her best to part with him on amicable terms. "What was he after?"

"A ghoul." Dalton gives her a shrewd look. "You'd have made short work of it, I bet."

"A ghoul? They're usually quiet this time of year."

He shrugs, waving to a nearby waitress. "Some rich widow got into a dispute over her late husband's will. Hired a necromancer —"

"Shit."

"Shit is right. Anyway, the bloke did a piss poor job of raising dear old dead, and finally got the idea he should call for an exterminator when the thing ate the widow. Guess it settled the issue, if you think about it." To the waitress, who looks more than a little pale, he says, "More whiskey for me, and a glass of your best red for my friend here."

Moth waits until the girl has scampered off to say, "You don't deal with necromancers."

"Not if they're looking to raise the dead. But I'll help them put a corpse back in the grave, same as you." With a sigh, Dalton leans back. "Times are changing, Kevrim. The line between hunter and hunted is blurring."

"It's always been that way. We hunt the beasts in the dark, and they hunt us," she replies. The waitress returns with their drinks, and Moth thanks her before shifting to pull a folded sheet of paper from her pocket. "I'd like you to take this."

He eyes it warily as he lifts it. "A sigil?"

"A ward," she clarifies.

His frown deepens. "You know I don't carry shit like this."

"I know." She does. Sometimes, his job takes him close to the underworld, where magic would put a larger target on his back than he already has. "But I've pissed something off, and the last thing I want is for you to get killed because of me."

He hums. Reaches into his coat and pulls out a cigarette, which he lights despite the 'No Smoking' signs plastered on the walls. "What's after you?"

"A demon, I assume. From the barghest job." The wine is cool and rich on her tongue when she takes a sip; it's a bribe, and both of them know it is, but she savors it anyway. "Turns out it had a master. I managed to banish it, but I wasn't strong enough to do it properly, so I was a bit crude. I'm sure it will be back at some point."

"It's strong, I take it. You don't blush at the little ones."

"It might be a Prince."

"Fuck," he breathes. The glass slides from his hand, thudding onto the table, spilling its contents across the chipped surface. Cursing, Dalton fumbles for napkins to mop up the waste, muttering almost petulantly, "Hundreds of years, people have searched for the Princes, and you go and attack one?"

"That about sums it up, yeah."

Dalton exhales a plume of smoke that curls lazily through the air. His eyes are calculating, almost cold, and she respects him for the absence of empty sympathy almost as much as she does his calm acceptance. "Your rates are gonna go up," he says, quietly. "I'll rework the next contracts so clients know there's a greater risk of harm until this is settled, and your fee will be larger."

"If you say so." She taps the table lightly. _"Next _contracts?"

"Mhm. I've got one for you now, if you'll take it."

They consider each other, the sounds of the bar swelling in their silence. A table nearby cries out in dismay as the game on the television shifts out of their favor, a loud crack splits the air as a man and a woman play pool, a group by the dart boards and arcade machines laugh and jostle one another, spilling beer over their shirts. Moth notices all of this and does not, the same way she notices the sounds of the city during rush hour. It is part of her world, a symphony that fades into the background until she needs to blend in with it. Does she want another job? Yes. She is growing restless from being cooped up in her shop, and the magic swelling beneath her skin has reached a feverish hum. But is it wise?

"Tell me about it," she says at last, "and then I'll decide."

He grins at her, revealing teeth too even to be anything other than paid for, the dental work a result of his failed time as a lawyer. "Atta girl. It's simple enough, and shouldn't take you more than an hour. Apparently there's this nightclub by the docks. Welcomes all sorts of people, open from dusk to dawn, you get the drift. Well, their clientele is dropping like flies. Sudden onsets of severe anemia, if the doctors are to be believed."

"A vampire?" She arches a brow.

"Not as such. The victims reek of sulfur when they're found, or so they say." He spreads his hands. "What do you think?"

Moth takes another sip of wine as she thinks. If it's not a proper vampire — and brimstone rules that out rather firmly — the only other option is a shtriga, a hellish thing brought about by methods long since forgotten. They are old world creatures, hard to find and harder to kill, with the only way to cure one being to find the shtriga who made it and forcing it to spit in its mouth. "Alright," she agrees wearily. "I'll take the job. But double the price. You'll need the extra cash for a funeral if this goes wrong."

* * *

"Shit!"

A crate explodes near her head, sending shards of shrapnel like knives slicing along her cheek. Moth pushes herself to her feet and darts into a nearby alcove, squeezing between dumpsters as a furious shriek rends the air. Somewhere out there is her dagger, forged from silver and etched with runes of purification and blessing, lost the first time she had been thrown across the alley; between it and her is the shtriga, which seems to be more than a little upset that she had interrupted its meal. The man it had cornered will live, though he'll more than likely need some sort of psychiatric help to rationalize nearly having his throat torn out by a malformed, naked woman with mottled gray skin, but Moth tries to tell herself that what matters is that he'll be alright.

As claws scrape over the pavement, she wishes she could say the same for herself.

The hunt had started well enough. She had come to the docks, and found the nightclub, and spent hours watching for someone who fit the profile of the other victims. When a man staggered, drunk and alone, into the street, she had followed, and it hadn't been long before she'd heard his terrified scream and the victorious wail of the shtriga. Getting him to safety had been as simple as distracting the beast so he could run. Then had come the flurry of fangs and wrongly-formed hands with bone-thin fingers that are more than capable of snapping her neck like a twig, and she had become acquainted with more than one of the grimy walls. Without the dagger, her only hope is to trick it onto hallowed ground, but where? The only church she knows of is too modern, the land unconsecrated. _Think, _she berates herself as a low snuffling reaches her, _think!_

Nearby, a bell tolls midnight.

A bell?

With a cry of her own, Moth bolts from the nook and takes off, hearing the low screech as the shtriga spots her. The bell continues, somewhere to the north, and she prays she can navigate the alleys and find it before she feels teeth at her throat. Left, right, left, she follows branching paths, hearing the shtriga slam into walls when it cannot turn quickly enough, the crushing of boxes and clanging of old pipes as it destroys them in its fury. If she is wrong, if the bell is attached to a courthouse or some other monument, then she will die, and her worries about demons will be over. But _if _she is right, _if _the bell is atop a church, _if _the church is old enough, she can survive. Her life, balanced on so many uncertainties. Has it ever been any different?

Claws tear through the back of her coat, snagging her shirt, but up ahead she sees the steeple and feels the thrum of holy ground and, with a cheer, lurches forward, shrugging out of the twisted fabric and vaulting herself over the low iron fence. The shtriga follows, perhaps blinded by hunger, or fury, or bloodlust, or all of those, and Moth turns just as it lands. There is an infinite moment within which nothing happens, and she knows she's going to die.

Then the shtriga screams, its flesh charring, twisting, as flames lick along its skin and consume its greasy hair.

"Oh," Moth whispers, taking a step back. She has read of this, knew it would happen, and yet the sheer _agony_ as the creature twists and tears at its skin, buckling and howling and, finally, pleading in a voice that is all too human despite the nonsensical sounds it makes, is more than she expected. There is a part of her that wants to offer it comfort, and she nearly does. Yet, when she leans forward, it lashes out, crumbling fingers missing her face by a hair's breadth. So she watches until nothing remains but ashes and smoldering embers, and those she stomps out with her boot. The exhilaration of surviving is slowly being overcome with exhaustion, and she turns her attention to the church, an old stone building with a smaller one attached, the light over the chipped wooden doors flickering warmly in the dark.

The hinges squeal when she pushes her way inside. As always, there is a faint prickling under her skin, a sense of _not belonging_ that she feels, to varying degrees, whenever she sets foot into such a place. A small placard rests next to the doors that lead from the vestibule to the nave that reads: _Old Abernathy Church, founded 16xx by Father Thomas. _Her brows lower. No wonder the shtriga couldn't set foot on the grounds; this place is old enough that nothing, save perhaps a Prince, could enter, and even they might face harm if they tried. Which makes it a perfect spot to rest, if only for an hour or so, and she crosses the second threshold, finding the room on the other side cheery, the pews old but lovingly polished, the rug that stretches down the aisle well-worn yet clean. Chandeliers fill the air with the quiet hum of electricity, something clicks as the heat turns on, and the floorboards squeak as she walks. Yet everywhere are signs of life, of care, and, to her surprise, blankets are folded on the last pew.

They are no doubt meant for the homeless who seek shelter from the elements, and Moth takes one with some guilt. If it were not for how her back stings, she would call Dalton and request a ride home. But the wounds, though slight, could cause her to become a shtriga herself if they are not purified, and a brief stay here will do just that. Promising that she will leave a donation in the morning, she makes her way to the raised benches behind the pulpit, where the choir might sit, and curls up on the one farthest from the door.

Then, her head aching, she draws the blanket around her shoulders, closes her eyes, and goes to sleep.


	3. Case 01, File 03: Prince I

**A/N: **This is the second of this week's double updates! After this, _As Above, So Below _will return to being updated every week on Wednesday.

* * *

"_Demons are like obedient dogs;  
they come when they are called."  
_— Remy de Gourmont

She wakes in the same hunched position, her limbs stiff, her hip throbbing from pressing against the hard wooden pew. Moth's first thought, born from the ache in her temples and the rotten taste of her mouth, is _hangover. _Then she opens her eyes, blinking blearily at the watery light of dawn painted by the stained glass windows, and it all comes back to her: the job, the chase, seeking refuge in a church.

She groans and pushes herself upright, clenching her jaw against the wave of nausea that rushes over her. Next time Dalton finds a shtriga, he can take his fee and shove it right up his ass. No money in the world is worth this sickness, which she knows comes from the holy ground burning the venom that would have made her a monster from her blood. She leans forward, waiting until the room stops wobbling to put a hand on the bench in front of her, trying to stand. Yet her legs refuse to cooperate, and she thuds back into the seat with a muffled curse.

"Excuse me," a man says, sounding amused and hesitant. "Are you alright?"

Moth leans her head against the cool wood, turning it to take in the newcomer. She's surprised to see a priest, though she doesn't know why it catches her off guard, even more so by the fact that he is, despite her innate aversion, quite handsome. His long hair, unusual amongst the clergy, is pulled back at the nape of his neck, the pale blond strands almost white, and the style complements his high cheekbones and strong jaw. But it's his gaze that holds her. It is a clear blue, like the noonday sky, frank and piercing. He's young, she realizes, certainly not much older than thirty, if he's even hit that age. His brows crease with concern; realizing she hasn't spoken yet, Moth replies, "Never better," wincing at the roughness of her voice.

"I see." He holds out a long-fingered hand. After a moment, she takes it, and he helps her easily to her feet. "I'm Father Mael. I suppose you could say that this is my parish, though, in truth, it belongs to God. It's been quite some time since someone like yourself has sheltered here."

_God hates you if he put you in this part of town, _she muses. Deciding it would be rude to voice that, she says, "I'm not homeless, if that's what you mean. I was . . ." _Hunting. _"I was attacked last night, and came here for safety."

His eyes widen, and she watches as he reaches into his pocket. "Attacked? Do you want me to call the police?"

"No, but thank you. I just want a shower and a cup of coffee, so I'll be heading out now." Moth picks the blanket up from the pew and wrinkles her nose at the stench coming off of it, and her. "I'll take this with me, if that's alright, so I can wash it. Then I'll bring it back."

She shifts, fully intending to climb around him if she needs to, only for him to hold out his hands. "Wait, please," he says, and it's the _please _that catches her attention. "There's a rectory, where I live, just outside. You can clean up there, and we can tend to your wounds while you decide if you want law enforcement —"

"No cops," she says firmly.

Mael stares at her, and then, slowly, he nods his head. "I won't call them. Will you come with me? I can get you a bit of breakfast, too."

Instinct says to run. Knock him out if she must, disappear before her face is something he can remember easily. Her stomach, however, protests that rather loudly, and a flush rises to her cheeks as he smothers a laugh, turning it into a cough. "That would be lovely. You have my gratitude."

"This way, then." He leads her through a small door she hadn't noticed the night before, into an equally narrow, poorly lit hallway with a floor that slants from one side to the other. As they walk, he chatters. "I must say, you gave me quite a shock. Usually the ones who spend the night don't come up onto the pulpit at all. It's like they're afraid they'll be punished."

"People down on their luck feel abandoned by God," Moth replies.

Mael nods. "Yes, so they do. I suppose it can be blamed on us for being lackluster shepherds. Any flock would lose faith if their leaders seemed unfit."

"Careful, Father," she says quietly. "They'll remove you if you say things like that."

They pause in front of another door, this one with a window made of four planes of clear glass set at the top. As he sifts through the keys at his belt, he says, "Don't misunderstand me. I only meant that we, as priests, have a duty that we do not always fulfill, and that makes it easy for the ones we are meant to guide and protect to slip through our fingers."

She watches him select a small, silver key. "Do you really buy into all of that?"

"Well —"

"Because it seems to me," she continues, not unkindly, "that a priest assigned to a place like this must either have done something to be punished, or is one that isn't as good as he should be."

This time, his eyes are much cooler when he looks at her. "There's a laundry unit in the rectory. You can use that to try and clean your clothes, and I'm certain there will be something else you can wear in the meantime."

An awkward silence descends between them as she follows him across a well-kept lawn into a building made from worn brick. The trim around the doors and windows is a clean, cheery white, a chimney pokes from the shingled roof, dormant now that summer is upon them, and bushes with bright flowers rest along the porch. They climb the stairs, the bumblebees buzzing curiously about them, and Moth smiles when one lands on a finger she holds out, leaving a fine coat of yellow pollen when it determines she has no nectar to offer and takes off.

This door takes a key made from brass, and the deadbolt does, too, and the foyer they step into is warm, little notes of dust dancing in the beams of light. On impulse, she kicks off her muddy boots, setting them on a small rack next to a pair of galoshes, unwilling to track filth over the polished floors and pristine runner.

"I'm sorry," she says. Mael turns to her with one brow raised, and she turns her gaze to the living room to avoid meeting his own. "What I said was senseless, and uncalled for. It's not my place to make such assumptions."

He sighs, lifting a hand to rub the back of his neck. "No, I . . . There was some truth to your words, and I didn't want to face it. I hope I haven't turned you off of breakfast."

"Not at all." She forces some cheer into her voice, and that seems to appease him.

Mael gestures to the stairs. "The washroom is on the second floor, first door on your left. If you leave your dirty things outside, I'll put them in the laundry and leave clean clothes for you. Towels are in the cupboard, along with any other necessities you might need."

Moth nods, murmuring a quiet thanks as she follows his directions. The washroom is the same as the rest of the rectory: a bit old-fashioned, but charming all the same. A claw-foot tub rests against one wall, the stainless steel shower head and plain curtain somehow not at odds with the antique; the sink is more of a basin, over which hands a mirror with a gilded bronze frame; and between the commode and the wall is a tall cupboard of dark oak. The large window set across from the tub lets the sunlight inside in streams softened by the sheer curtains, and the bench beneath it is topped by a plush cushion. A cream rug stretches from the tub to the sink, covering up tile that has just started to yellow with age. She tilts her head as she takes it all in, and then she sets about figuring out how to work the shower, not wanting to sit in her own dirt no matter how tempting a bath sounds.

Once the water is running and steam is beginning to curl through the air, she starts the process of removing her clothes. Bending too suddenly sends pain lancing up her spine. Hissing quietly, she slowly peels her pants and underwear down her legs, folding them before daring to so much as grab the hem of her shirt. Watching herself in the mirror, she fights to get the fabric over her head, wincing the higher she lifts her arms, and the sight of the bruises mottling her ribs and back makes her flinch. With these, she looks like the victim of an assault, and she tosses the ruins of her shirt into the trash before unhooking her bra and setting it on the pile of clothes. For a moment, she thinks she catches movement from the corner of her eye, but turning to look reveals only the door, swaying back and forth. Deciding she must not have closed it properly, she places her things outside and then latches it firmly in place.

The shower is _heavenly. _

Moth groans at the warmth that envelops her and works to soothe her aching body. She almost doesn't care that the water runs brown for quite some time, or that her side aches fiercely when she lathers her hair with a rather expensive shampoo sitting on a shelf. It's enough to be _clean, _so she makes use of the products on display, the body wash that smells of spices and the conditioner that leaves her hair silky and soft, and she remains under the spray until the water starts to turn cold. Towelling off is a chore that she does mindlessly, and the small flicker of embarrassment when she uses the deodorant she finds in the medicine cabinet goes quickly. _You're not leaving a one-night stand, _she scolds herself. _And he offered. _

There's a shirt and a pair of trousers, both black, sitting where her clothes had been when she peeks out. They're so large on her that she has to cuff them several times, and she nearly laughs at the sight of herself in the mirror, like a girl wearing her father's clothes. Then the scents of coffee and bacon draw her downstairs, and she finds Mael in the kitchen, plating a rather large portion of scrambled eggs.

"Coffee's in the pot," he says without looking at her. "Cream and sugar are on the table. Help yourself."

She does, and by the time she's found a mug and made a cup just the way she likes it, he's finished setting the table. They sit, and she lets him serve her. "Thank you," she says, for the fourth time, and the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles.

Mael has the good grace to let her finish eating before his questioning begins. "You said you were attacked?"

Moth chews a piece of bacon thoughtfully. "Yes," she says, "but don't ask any more about it. You wouldn't believe me if I answered honestly, and I don't want to lie to you after the kindness you've shown me."

He considers that. She can almost see the thoughts churning behind his eyes. "Alright," he replies. "I suppose your wish to avoid police extends to the hospital, too?" At her nod, he sighs and leans back, crossing his legs as he studies her over the rim of his mug. "Can I ask for your name, at least?"

"It's Alessa," she answers, "but you can call me Moth."

His lips quirk. "Saint Alessa," he says, "daughter of God."

* * *

They don't speak much after that, other than simple niceties. She learns quickly that Mael fluctuates between talking aimlessly and an observant silence that almost makes her nervous, and she takes his offer to do the dishes as her time to leave. Moth promises to wash and return the shirt, and he tells her not to worry over it, and she insists until finally, laughing, he agrees. Her wallet and phone are on top of the dryer when she looks; taking the cash she has, a rather large sum, she drops it on the table when his back is turned and ducks out of the door. Farewells have never been her strong suit.

She catches the train home, ignoring the other passengers, and walks the two miles from the station to her shop. Were she anyone else, doing such a thing might make her nervous, but people long since stopped bothering her, turned off by the air of danger that clings to her like cheap perfume. It's a trait all demon hunters share, one that makes navigating the city, even at night, an easy thing to do.

But outside of her home, Moth hesitates. There's a faint trace of sulfur to the air — is it her? — and a quick test reveals her wards are shattered. Wary now, but not yet frightened, she curls her right hand into a fist, whispering words of heat and destruction, and the fire that licks around her fingers waits for a target as she climbs the stairs and carefully pushes open the door. Her shop is in order, nothing out of place that she can immediately see; inching inside, she scans her surroundings, well aware that it would take something stronger than the average creature to force its way inside. Another step, and the door creaks closed behind her. Another, and she catches the scent of something dark and rich, like cinnamon-dusted chocolate.

Another, and a hand curls around her shoulder and flings her to the floor.

Moth twists as she falls, bringing her hand up, flames roaring into a blaze, only to go out in a tide of darkness. Before she can push herself up, weight settles over her hips, grips like steel pinning her wrists to the floor. Her eyes are stinging from the flare of light; through the haze, a face emerges, and she grits her teeth at the silver hair and coal-black eyes, the lips curled into an indolent grin. "It seems," the demon says, "rather unwise to blind yourself so carelessly. If I so wished, I could have rent you limb from limb, and you would have been helpless to stop me. I still might," it muses.

"Go fuck yourself," she hisses.

One of its hands grabs her face, and the agony of having her skull slammed into the ground makes her retch. "We've done that, witch. Didn't you wonder where I had gone? Your little jest," it raises her head again, "cost me precious time."

"Go," she wheezes, wrapping her fingers around its forearm, _"fuck yourself."_

"Such a crass thing you are." This time, however, it rocks back, pulling her into an uncomfortable lean as it settles its weight onto its haunches. "Fortunately for you, the debt I owe keeps you breathing. For now. So, tell me," a claw curves under her chin, lifting her face to its own, "what do you wish for?"

Moth does not answer. With a sigh that sounds bemused, the demon stands, yanking her harshly to her feet. "Money? Fame? Love? Tell me, and it shall be yours."

"And give you my soul?" she hisses.

It chuckles. "Yes, that too. It has been quite some time since a witch graced my halls. I wonder if you will scream as delightfully as the rest?"

She struggles to step back, twisting in its grasp; to her surprise, it releases her. "I want nothing from you," Moth snarls. "Go away." It merely arches a brow, tilting its head with an infuriating smile. "Are you deaf? Go away!"

Slowly, it moves towards her, and she retreats, remembering the strength in its hands, until she is cornered between it and the wall. Sunlight glints from the pendant at its neck, the loops and branching lines gleaming with a magic of their own, and the effect is hypnotizing. The demon leans over her, pressing its fingers to her breast, where pain blooms, forgotten, under its touch. "A debt is owed," the Prince croons sweetly, seductively. "Until it is repaid, you will bear the mark of Estarossa the Betrayer, so that all will know to whom you belong." It grazes her ear with a ghost of a kiss. "Remember my name, little Moth."

Then there is darkness, and a mournful song.

* * *

It is evening when she wakes to the sound of her phone ringing shrilly. Moth sits up, pushing her blankets away, and searches for the damned device in the sheets; when she finds it, the sight of Dalton's name on the screen only furthers her irritation, and his furious voice feeds the ache behind her temples. "Kevrim! Where the hell have you been?! I've got a client up my ass, and you pull a disappearing act?"

"Be quiet for a second," she mutters. There's a sharp intake of breath, but he does as she's asked, and she takes the time to open the aspirin on her nightstand, chewing the tablets dry. "The shtriga is gone. I was at a church, resting after nearly being killed. Now I'm home."

"You sure as shit didn't answer the office phone," he gripes.

"No, because I'm . . ." She trails off, the bitter taste in her mouth growing worse. The shtriga, yes, and the church, and Mael, all of that she remembers. But not getting here, and certainly not placing the aspirin, which she keeps in her washroom, on the table next to a glass of water, and not changing into a tanktop and climbing into bed. Bile rising in her throat, Moth rushes into the washroom, yanking the collar of her shirt down and staring, horrified, at her reflection.

Branded on her chest is the mark of a Prince, as fresh as if the iron has just been placed against her flesh. She watches as it fades to little more than a silver scar, and — _bear the mark of Estarossa the Betrayer — _she drops her phone to the floor and lunges for the toilet, the shrill shouts of Dalton ringing in her ears.


End file.
